


Rust-coloured Boys

by orphan_account



Category: C-Clown, K-pop
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2707925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a new artist in town— an American girl named Amy Lee, but she is known to the world as Ailee. Everybody in Korea calls her Lee Yejin, anyway.</p>
<p>She is rumoured to have a hundred paintings, and thousands upon thousands of photographs taken with a film camera.</p>
<p>Six rowdy boys, in particular, are curious about her secret workplace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rust-coloured Boys

**Author's Note:**

> This story was first published in Asianfanfics under the title _Darkroom_ ; it has been backdated to reflect the original date of completion.

 

She is a nice, well-mannered girl, his mother says.

 

She is giggly and shy about the whimsically pink lomographic camera she uses to capture scenes in public parks and preschools, and Siwoo finds it difficult to not think of her ample chest that can hardly be contained by her thick, tight sweatshirt as it rises and falls with her steady breaths. Even while garbed in the bulkiest of layers, her feminine figure screams to be noticed.

Siwoo does not like thinking of such images; his old pants get unbearably painful in such situations.

 

Still, he cannot avoid the vivid pictures running a slideshow in his mind as his friends excitedly discuss their newest neighbour.

 

“I heard you had that American artist for dinner.”

He blushes at Kangjun’s word choice.

The others laugh while a boy with sharp eyes questions, “Is she hot?”

“Don’t be stupid, Maru,” scoffs one with a deep voice. “Artists are never hot. Look at Kangjun-hyung.”

Before a scuffle breaks out, Siwoo finally finds his voice which he uses to say, “She’s Korean.”

“So,” Ray nudges him, wide-eyed. “Is she hot?”

 

“She is…”

He hesitates, his mind wandering to the little unforgettable scenes from last night’s meal.

_She is licking away soup smeared on her moist lips._

_An arm pressed to her side, her round breast struggles against its confines._

_Her sparkling eyes crinkle, smiling with delight at a lame joke his father recounts._

 

 

“She,” he repeats with a dash of certainty. “She’s very pretty.”

The others nod and a bored silence settles on their group. They stay this way for some moments, awkwardly fiddling with their fingers while shooting expectant looks at one another before the eldest finally speaks up.

“She has a film camera, doesn’t she?”

 

 

 

Barom’s eyes light up with mischief as he smirks, continuing, “Let’s ask if we can go see her darkroom.”

 

 

\- - - -

 

 

Lee Yejin is explaining a complicated-sounding method she does to develop film when Siwoo notices a piece that seems out-of-place in her cheery duplex.

She is blabbering about footcandle-seconds in the E-6 process, but her words are incoherent to his ears. Besides, he has spotted an interesting painting in the dim little corner close to the door of her darkroom.

 

It is the body of a rust-coloured teenage boy, his skin scratched in many places; crimson splatters drip and smudge around the wounds, and his face is that of a submissive pain.

 

Siwoo means to ask, but the world is moving and swaying and trembling as it pulls him down towards the carpeted floor with a muffled  _thump_.

 

His half-finished cupcake is his second. It rolls off his hand but he regrets nothing because he knows nothing, and the artist grunts as she drags him towards a door near a painting signed  _Ailee_.

 

 

\- - - -

 

 

He awakens with the feeling of hard metal binding his wrists so he can barely move them. There is also something taping his lips together securely, so that his voice comes out of his nose in quiet noises of protest at the thin, double-ended disposable razor blade held by the blank-eyed girl straddling his hips.

Something is dripping slowly down his cheeks, wetting his hair; he thinks that they are his tears until he sees his own blood staining the blade.

She leans down, caressing his hair lovingly, her full breasts pressing down on his body and her lips brushing his ear while she whispers, “You’re very pretty.”

He struggles, looking around for his companions.

 

“Can you stop with those imaginary friends already?”

 

She is chuckling, and he has no idea what she means because his attention is stolen by the warmth of her crotch on his.

 

He doesn’t want this. No.  _No._  This  _isn’t_  right.

 

There are photographs, dozens and dozens of them, of maybe five different boys with their eyes closed, skins stained maroon and scarlet.

 

 

He will become the next rust-coloured boy.

 

 

“I don’t usually do this, but you’re so _very_  pretty.”

She fondles the bulging crook at the centre of his pants where pleasure blindingly contradicts the stinging slashes on his skin.

 

She swiftly carves her final line on his graceful neck, and he feels no pain for a moment because the blade is so thin.

 

When it comes, a lucid moment takes place; and, before he blacks out completely, he remembers that he began saving chairs at mealtimes for five make-believe people since moving out of Gwangju.

 

 


End file.
